


Letters

by ethelindi (eventide), injured_eternity, melliyna



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-04
Updated: 2010-11-06
Packaged: 2017-10-13 01:42:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/131410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eventide/pseuds/ethelindi, https://archiveofourown.org/users/injured_eternity/pseuds/injured_eternity, https://archiveofourown.org/users/melliyna/pseuds/melliyna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spencer Reid writes three letters for Mother's Day, and sends two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the lovely emmalabizarre :) Any remaining mistakes are ours.

The first letter is the easiest.

Spencer writes his mother daily; it's no great effort to add in a few paragraphs that detail his love and appreciation. He never sends her a letter without "I love you, Mom" somewhere in it, so it's just a matter of elaborating and throwing in a "Happy Mother's Day".

And thanking her, because he is grateful. His mother has given him so much, beginning with his life. If she was never quite the same after her pregnancy, after she went off her meds, it's nothing he has a right to be angry at her for. Not when she did it for him. He's angry, but not at his mother. At her illness, yes. At the universe, the cosmos, the unified field, God, the laws of probability, the dance of electrons or whatever higher power is out there? At genetics, at DNA mutations? Oh, he is angrier than he has words for, with an irrationality that used to be comforting. At his father, for walking out, for sending her into that final tailspin, for leaving him alone to care for someone who should have been taking care of him? He's furious, and bitter, and he has every right to it.

But there are things he can't change, and things he can. And he's learning that he'd rather be comfortable than right, though he'll take what he can get.

He's also learning that the universe has an ironic sense of humor. For a genius specializing in pattern recognition, he's always had a blind spot when it comes to people close to him. He's grown out of it to some extent, but Gideon's leaving surprised him as much as his father's. It shouldn't have; between Gideon's history of leaving his family and his own life experience, Spencer's not sure why he trusted Gideon in the first place. Except, maybe, for that desperate part of him that was still four, still waiting for Dad to come home--but he knows better, now, than to listen to his damage.

The jury's still out on whether the letter Gideon left helped or made things worse. At least he left a letter, though Spencer was highly uncomfortable being the addressee. Yes, he'd let Gideon play father-figure (though it had never been an entirely comfortable dynamic), but he wasn't the only one on the team who deserved a letter; Hotch excluded, Gideon had been that to the entire team. Spencer, though, was the only one Gideon could count on to remain relatively unemotional. He resented that manipulation, being chosen to break the news to the rest of the team. He resented all of it, actually - Gideon's choice to take on that role and, conversely, his failure to own it, to take the responsibilities that went with it. Jason Gideon: trying out family and running when he could no longer bear not to burn his bridges. Which perhaps is not so fair, he thinks, but Spencer Reid finds it very hard to be charitable to Jason Gideon. Not because he broke, not because he ran, but because he'd chosen to take on responsibilities he couldn't own. Couldn't keep. It's uncharitable of him to blame Gideon for Elle's (they don't call them nervous breakdowns anymore, you know) sudden departure, too. But Spencer is not the one determined to carry the world on his shoulders, struggling beneath the heaviness of his own legalism. He is aware of his flaws and scars and mistakes, and he is learning to live with them.

When Spencer thinks of Elle, it's about what might have been, what was, and what wasn't. He thinks of her voice and her face and her scars, of her flinching, and her not-quite-joking words months before: "Yes, Dad." Gideon's gravely serious "Don't ever call me Dad again" had been the start of her pulling away. He remembers the mask of Elle's smile and the way she fell apart, and he wonders if things could have been different.

Elle had always gravitated toward Gideon. Despite Hotch's best efforts to lead the team and still be a welcoming figure, she'd never been entirely comfortable with him. Spencer, though, had always relaxed more easily around Hotch. Gideon's authoritarian style and charisma had struck at his vulnerable places, but the dynamic hadn't lent itself to anything like genuine comfort. With Hotch there was quiet acceptance; with Gideon there was only emotional turmoil and a kicked-puppy eagerness to please. Gideon had kept Spencer anxious and sharp-edged, hungry for approval. Spencer's value had always been in his status as protege, as mirror, as creature to be shaped and formed and rescued.

Then again, Gideon always did need to save people. Elle, after losing her father so young, had needed a hero and a chance at forgiveness. It was a dangerous near-fit; he'd given her a hero, but never that second chance at a relationship. He'd never been Dad, but she had reacted well to his paternalism nonetheless. (Unlike Spencer, whose father had been anything but heroic.) Elle had her idealized notions, and Spencer had his gnawing anxiety.

He was better with Rossi, who treated Spencer as an equal. At least, he had at first--if Rossi was occasionally over-protective now, he'd earned the right to be. Rossi had worked up to Spencer's trust, where Gideon had assumed it like a status marker. Comfort came from the small things, like Rossi staying behind in Vegas for the debacle with Spencer's father. (That hadn't ended up a small thing, but it had started as one.) He'd half-expected Morgan, but to find them both waiting in his hotel room? Gideon wouldn't have done that. Even when Spencer had flat-out admitted that he was struggling, when he had actually asked for help as best as he could, Gideon had been more concerned over his work performance. The thing to reassure Gideon with wasn't "I'm fine", but "I'll never miss a plane again". Rossi, when Spencer had missed another plane (even if he had permission, this time), had been worried about Spencer-the-person. Not about Doctor Spencer Reid, not about his protege, not about the quirky genius who conveniently had all the facts. He thinks about that week in Vegas and the way he could hear the worry in the man's voice when the therapist couldn't bring him out of his hypnotic trance, how Rossi had yelled for her to stop it because he was worried. How Rossi had warned him against his chosen path, but been willing to go along with it, if that was what was Spencer needed. "You make the best call you can, kid."

And Hotch? Hotch was...Hotch, whom he'd been comfortable with from the very beginning. On Spencer's first day at the BAU, Hotch had set him at ease. He'd been relaxed and clear in his instructions, smiling at Spencer quietly with an unexpected confidence in someone he'd only known a few hours. There had never been the anxiety of living up to expectations with Hotch. Never the sense that you were being measured by your every action and found wanting. Hotch was the one who watched you carefully so he could help when it was needed. He was the one who would pull you aside on your first day, when you were on the brink of panic, and say, "Welcome to Camelot. Have you noticed our table is round, Dr. Reid?" with a not-quite-wink. He'd laugh with you until the butterflies settled down. Somewhere along the line, somewhere between Henkel and Gideon leaving, Spencer had worked it out. Gideon treated him like a genius; Hotch had always just treated him as Spencer Reid, person.

There are a lot of things Spencer remembers and some that he's trained himself to remember. Because there are things you don't want to lose. One of those things was the Theodore Bryer case, walking into a hostage situation to get Elle out safely. Walking onto that train, he'd carried Hotch's words--"See you when you get back"--as a talisman. He'd been afraid of disappointing Gideon, but Hotch had just wanted him to come back safely. To come back home. Those words are still what Spencer Reid carries with him into the dark places. Hotch's words and his understanding--the way Hotch gets that touching Spencer is not always a good idea. That sometimes he needs space with the case files, the board and his brain. That there are times when he needs to lose himself in words and hard facts, and that there are times when words are beyond him. Spencer carries the feeling of safety in Hotch's arms after Henkel, on the days when safety feels like a distant illusion.

Holding the envelope with his mother's letter in it, Spencer reaches a conclusion: Hotch has a lot in common with Diana Reid. Or, more accurately, with the person his mother would have been. With the way she would have supported him, if she'd been able. Traditional gender roles aside, it actually makes a lot of sense. Gideon had been (don't ever call me) Dad, and Rossi was Dad. So Hotch in a maternal role made more sense than not.

Mothers, at their best, he thinks, give you space to exist, to talk or not talk. The way Hotch does. Sometimes, Spencer wonders if Hotch is aware of how much he holds the team together. If he knows how much it means to all of them--not just Spencer, but Morgan and Garcia and JJ and...well, he's pretty sure he's had that conversation with everyone but Dave.

Hotch takes care of them. Spencer thinks, lightly, about a Mother's Day card signed by the whole team--it would never work, but it's an amusing thought. The balance is too precarious right now, and Spencer doesn't want to lose what they have by upsetting it, but maybe one day it will be a possibility.

This, then, might be why he finds himself picking up another sheet of paper after he's slipped his mother's letter into an envelope. It should be easy, he thinks, finding a way to open the letter, because he knows he's not writing to "Agent Hotchner", but "Aaron" feels... feels a little too informal, in a worry-inducing way.

So he puts down "Hotch", which is somewhere in the middle, and makes himself continue. The words feel awkward, in his mind, in his hands, on the page. This team and its relationships are built upon implicit trust and undertones founded in watching one another's backs. It's a kind of love, even, but they're also not a team that talks about these things. Part of it, he thinks, is that at one point they didn't have the time, and while they still don't have the time, they've also fallen into the pattern. It's a habit now, and being the one to break it is harder than he thought it would be.

Finally, he just writes. His mother would have told him something along the lines of "write from your heart, Spencer", and though he knows it's a cliché and Morgan would probably die laughing if he ever heard, he figures it can't hurt.

Once he's made this decision, it becomes a little easier to find the words--thanks for being family, for saving his life, for understanding, for making an effort even though he can't know, for all of the little things people think he doesn't notice. There's thanks for, quite literally, being Mom; he hasn't the heart to say "Happy Mother's Day", particularly not now, but the sentiment is there. It's an undercurrent running from start to finish, one that would only push the knife in deeper were he to spell it out. This way, it's just there, and Spencer knows without doubt that Hotch will notice it.

Four pages later, he has something resembling a proper letter of thanks, but as he puts the pen down and reads it over, he finds himself shaking his head--at himself, at Hotch, at the team. Sending this letter is an impossibility, even if it's true. Or perhaps it's because of all the truth in it that he can't send it. The thing about the team dynamic is that they care about each other as people. As fellow human beings. As family. Making an explicit acknowledgement of the bonds they've formed, exposing that foundation? Is too likely to disturb what they have built. They're all still raw around the edges, in so many ways, and what they have now is not something he's willing to risk.

So he folds the pages and slides them into the back of a journal. Ironically, it's a journal Gideon had given him, one he'd never found the right moment to use. This may not qualify as "use" in any proper dictionary, but it's something. The journal goes into the back of the locking drawer of his file cabinet: he'll figure out whether or not to run it through the shredder later.

He sits down at his desk again and drafts a third letter. This one is more generic; thank-yous couched in recognition that Mother's Day is going to be difficult for Hotch and Jack. His gratitude, this year, is in his offer to show up later in the day with take-out and a movie for Jack. Hotch and Jack need to be together on Sunday, but Spencer knows how to be unobtrusive. By late afternoon, Hotch will appreciate the downtime a movie will provide, and though he'd certainly make sure Jack ate, this way Hotch will eat, too. Hotch would never accept on his own behalf, but if it might be good for Jack--well, there was Spencer's ticket in the door. And Spencer's empathy is for Jack as much as Hotch--it's good for Jack to know he's not alone. To know that he's not the only kid in the history of the world to sit in school and stare at construction paper and wonder who, exactly, he can give this card to. It had been Father's Day for Spencer, June instead of May, but the sentiment holds.

(Spencer has his own suspicions about Hotch's effectual orphan status, but that's not the kind of thing you share with your four-year-old child.)

He signs his name and folds the single sheet of paper into careful thirds, creasing it with his thumbnail. The letter goes into a blank envelope, which he prints "Hotch" on in neat block letters.

There's no point trying to get to the office before Hotch the next day. Spencer shows up at his normal time and waits for the inevitable errand that will send Hotch across the building. It turns out to be an interdepartmental meeting--the type that tends to break out just when you aren't looking (though Spencer suspects Garcia had a hand in it, after their phone conversation last night). It gives him enough time to slip the envelope on top of the pile of paperwork on Hotch's desk and get back to his own desk before Hotch returns. And wait, anxiety gnawing at his stomach, for a reply.

The reply comes in the form of his name being called as he's gathering his things to go home. Spencer stops and turns, and Hotch is there.

"Jack and I would appreciate that," Hotch says, smiling with his eyes. "I'll see you Sunday?"

Reid swallows, and nods.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sunday contains takeout, Superman, and nostalgic movies.

It's a little after 7 pm when the doorbell rings.

Hotch hasn’t gotten much sleep in the past few days. Jack’s nightmares are getting better overall (or he cries out less for Haley in his sleep), but this weekend they’ve been particularly bad. It was to be expected, really - Hotch hadn’t deluded himself into believing they’d make it through Mother’s Day weekend without them.

Or without nightmares of his own. If he's honest, it wasn’t just Jack that kept him awake; he was avoiding the dreams that stalked his own sleeping hours. The ones that followed reality were bad enough, but his mind tended to elaborate, embellish, fill in the gaps in his knowledge. The one time he'd drifted off the night before, Hotch had started awake in a cold sweat from being Haley. Foyet, hands in her soft blond hair--because Aaron's worst nightmares are never about himself. They never have been. It used to be he was his mother, or Sean, but he was rarely himself. His subconscious wasn't kind enough to give him something he could handle easily.

The doorbell rings again. Hotch levers himself off the sofa where Jack is napping fitfully, and pads across the carpet. When he looks through the peephole, Reid is standing in front of his door with a plastic bag, nervously shifting his weight between both feet. Hotch had almost forgotten that Reid was coming over. He slides the bolt out of its frame and opens the door.

"Hi," Reid says. The hand not weighted down with take-out comes up in a small half-wave, and his mouth twitches up at the corners. Hotch steps back so Reid can walk through the door. Once he closes the door behind Reid, he takes the plastic bag, and they head toward the table.

"What is this?" he asks. The bag rustles when he sets it on the wooden table and works at the knot.

"Chinese," Reid says. He seems a little nervous, as if he’s unsure of his welcome. It’s not as if they’ve never done this before; Reid and Jack have movie night at least once a month. “I forgot to bring forks.”

Hotch turns and smiles at him--genuine, reassuring, exhausted. “Jack’s plate is on the towel next to the sink. You know where the forks and the rest of the plates are.” Movie night with Jack is not really the same as movie night on Mother’s Day, and a little reassurance isn’t going to hurt.

Jack chooses that moment to wander in, sleepily rubbing his eyes. His face lights up when he sees Reid. “Spencer!”

“Hey, Jack.” Reid steps over to tousle Jack’s hair. “I brought Chinese. Want to help me get plates?” He catches Hotch’s amused look as Jack grabs Reid’s hand and leads him to the kitchen.

“Superman!” Jack says, pointing at the plate on the towel.

Reid retrieves the plate from next to Jack’s cereal bowl. "Is Superman still your favorite?"

"He looks like my Daddy," Jack says proudly.

There is a certain resemblance, Reid thinks. He lets Jack direct him toward forks and spoons and plates, and they walk back to set the table. Jack folds paper napkins into triangles that are both careful and askew, as only a four-year-old can manage.

Reid goes back for cups while Hotch starts spooning stir-fry onto Jack’s plate. He returns with two glasses of water, and Jack’s juice cup tucked in the crook of one arm. After distributing them, he slides into the chair between Hotch and Jack, and accepts the paper carton that Hotch hands him.

Jack picks at his food while Reid is juggling cartons, but Hotch quietly waits until Reid has his fork in hand to pick up his own. He finds himself caught up in watching the other two - they’re sitting next to one another, intently focused on separating stir-fry into its component groups. With their matching brown-blonde hair, Reid could easily be an older version of Jack. They have the same enthusiasm and wonder, the same endearing solemnity and nervousness. The main difference is that Reid actually eats his vegetables once he’s sorted them into neat piles.

“I’ll clean up,” Hotch says when they’ve all finished. “Jack, Spencer brought a movie. Why don’t you go get into your PJs? They’re on your bed.”

Jack scampers off toward his room, and Spencer pushes in his chair and looks at Hotch. “Want some help?”

“I’ve got it,” he says, gathering plates. He pauses briefly to meet Spencer’s eyes. “Reid, thank you for this.”

Spencer fights the urge to look away. “It’s no trouble,” he says. It really isn’t--he likes spending time with Jack. He’s pretty sure Hotch is aware of that--pretty sure Hotch knows that Spencer enjoys spending time with him, too--but the look in Hotch’s eyes makes him feel uncomfortably vulnerable nonetheless.

Hotch gives him a small smile, and the tension he’s been feeling dissipates. “If you’re okay watching the movie with him, I'd like to take a shower and get some things done. Laundry, dishes, things like that.”

Spencer returns the smile. “It’s why I’m here.” Which is not the whole truth, and they both know it, but it’s a comfortable excuse.

Jack chooses that moment to run back in, dressed in dinosaur pajamas. “Movie time!” he says, looking between Hotch and Reid.

“I’m going to do some chores, buddy. Spencer will watch the movie with you.” Rather than looking disappointed, Jack fairly bounces, and grabs Spencer’s hand.

Spencer finds himself being led to the TV. Hotch has a VCR, thankfully--something else he hadn’t thought of--though it takes a bit of connecting to get it functional again. Jack looks fascinated by the whole process, but a little sad. Spencer reaches over to give his shoulder a squeeze. It’s one of their things, like the movie choices.

They’ve made their way through various movies, though Spencer likes to ask Hotch first. Right now, certain movies are definitely off limits. They tend to avoid Bambi by default. Usually, Harry Potter is also off the list. (Jack likes the books better anyway.) Things like The Princess Bride, though, they can all laugh at. (One day, when Jack is old enough, Spencer is going to show him Monty Python).

Today, the movie is The Pagemaster. It’s an old favorite of Spencer’s, even if he was too old for such things by the time it came out. (You are never too old for cartoons, in his opinion. Besides, he’s making up for lost time - sometimes his lack of a normal childhood shows up in unexpected ways.)

Spencer watches the movie but keeps half an eye on Jack. Even If Spencer Reid had the mother he did, he still knew he had a mother. He's never been ashamed of her, not in the way the world expects. But he is ashamed of the way the world thinks of her. So he'd stopped talking about her, stopped saying anything that could potentially cause curiosity. At a young age, he’d learned that it was harder to explain than to quietly cut construction paper for a Mother’s Day card that might never get seen, might accidentally get tossed out with the trash. At a slightly older age, he’d learned that it hurt less to throw the cards out himself and save the pain of rejection.

He hopes Jack can still make a Mother’s Day card for Haley. He hopes Jack knows it’s okay to hurt because you can only tell stories about your mom, you can't talk to her or reach out for her. He's always had his mother there, physically, even when she wasn't exactly there. For Jack, who doesn't really comprehend finality yet, Spencer wonders what answers even the adults who love him can give to make this easier. If there even is anything that can make this easier.

And then he wonders if this is how Morgan feels about him, this fierce affection and protectiveness, despite knowing that the world will do what it will.

He's not going to let anything happen to Jack’s remaining parent. Or to the closest person Spencer has to a real parent, either, the person who doesn’t need an orderly to prevent them from throwing out a Mother’s Day letter.

***

When Hotch comes back, he finds Jack and Spencer both asleep. He stops the movie before pausing to look at the two heads cuddled together at a slightly awkward angle. They fit right somehow, and Hotch can’t stop himself lingering a moment, thinking. He’d never in his life thought he’d be the recipient of Reid’s trust, let alone become the person Reid believed would stay. Something comes to his mind, a joke that isn’t a joke anymore, something that he’d overheard at Quantico--”Spencer Reid has two mommies”.

It’s not a joke to either of them. That Spencer is here, on Mother’s Day, says that. That neither of them have mentioned anything about it says more than anything. They don’t tend to speak the important things; they don’t need to. They know each other’s pain and joy well enough to communicate in easier ways. That both affirms their connection and hurts, that each has enough pain to understand the other’s. But this family warms him, how they can be. How Jack and Henry will grow up brothers, too.

Jack is still sleeping. Hotch picks him up gently, feeling the warm floppiness of his son, heavy and cuddly with sleep. After Jack is tucked snugly into bed, Hotch regretfully wakes Spencer. Couches are not friendly to sleep on. He’s watched Reid sleep in the oddest places, and he wants to make sure that when he has the chance for a bed, he gets a bed.

Reid in just-woken-up mode has a certain similarity to Jack--though maybe it’s in the tousled hair.

“Reid, thank you for doing this,” Hotch says quietly.

“Any time, Hotch. Jack is a good kid.”

“He’s lucky to have you.”

Reid laughs a little, nervously. “I don’t know about that. He can compare horror stories with poor Henry when they’re older.”

“You’re doing a great job with Henry, too. You know, Jack could use someone else to look after him.”

“Hotch...I have a godson. Not that I don’t want to, but...I have a godson.. I think there’s an ordinance against having two.”

“I didn’t mean a godfather. You know I’m not particularly religious, anyway.” He pauses. “Jack could use a big brother, and seeing as you already eat your vegetables, you’d be a great one.” He reaches out to give Reid’s shoulder a squeeze, and unexpectedly finds himself with an armful of Reid.

Hugs from Reid are a valuable commodity, more powerful for their rarity. Hotch hasn’t been the recipient of a hug like this since Hankel. It doesn’t last long - Reid hugs like Jack does, a full-body cling, burying his face in Hotch’s shoulder before pulling away like the boy who feels too old and is embarrassed to be seen hugging Mom in public.

But here Hotch is, being hugged. And as Reid untangles himself, Hotch thinks that perhaps he knows what it means to be a Mom as well as a Dad.


End file.
